


A Brass Knife

by squirenonny



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Mistborn - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: 31 Days of Sadfic, CFSWF, Gen, Original Character Death(s), abuse mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirenonny/pseuds/squirenonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after Breeze ran away from home, he goes back to make things right.</p>
<p>Written for CFSWF 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brass Knife

**Author's Note:**

> Expands on last year's [Breeze meta](http://squirenonny.tumblr.com/post/90213505482/breeze-comes-from-a-family-of-emotional) [abuse tw and major Mistborn Trilogy spoilers at the link]

The hardest part was convincing his crew leader it was worth the risk.

Money wouldn’t do it, for this keep was poorer than its neighbors, and better defended. It was true that this crew, like all the others Breeze had worked on, wanted boxings. Atium, if they could find it. But they thirsted for revenge almost as much as wealth.

He hadn’t counted on how long it would take him to find a crew like that. Five years. So much had changed—for Breeze, at least. A new name, a new life. He’d come near to starving more than once, and nearer still to a more violent death. But he’d established himself in the world of skaa thieves, finally.

Now it was time to go back.

There was no shortage of reasons to hate nobles, more than Breeze had realized when he chose this life. This nobleman in particular hit all the low points, and after fifteen years under the same roof, Breeze had all the leverage he needed. He knew how many visits the man paid to skaa brothels, how many skaa laborers he had murdered on a whim.

He knew more, but the thieving crews wouldn’t care about the fate of a noblewoman who had been Rioted into an abusive marriage.

That had been the second hardest part: teasing out a plan that would ruin Breeze’s father while leaving his mother free to return to her own family. A crew like this one, driven more by rage than greed, would just as soon kill everyone in the keep.

Breeze could not let that happen.

The plan was two-fold. A strike at the barges carrying Ministry cargo, to ruin the house’s fortunes and their favor with the Obligators. In its wake, allowing just enough time for Breeze’s father to realize his house was crumbling, an assassin.

And Breeze, if he had his way, would be that assassin.

“A Soother? On an assassination?” Temmon, the crew leader, was no less incredulous than the others, but he at least remembered how to speak.

Breeze stood up straighter. He’d grown considerably in the last year and no longer had to look up to meet the hard eyes around him. In the ballrooms of the nobility, a twenty-year-old would still be playing at politics, practicing for the day when his actions might come to something.

In the underground, twenty was old enough to run a crew—not that Breeze intended to do that. Crew leaders took more risks than the rest. They contacted crew members, scouted targets, and ran point. Usually.

Certainly Temmon had expected to be the assassin when he’d proposed this plan—after months of careful Soothing on Breeze’s part. Temmon was a Coinshot, the only crewmember on this job who could attack from a distance and make a quick getaway. The rest were all Thugs, plus a few Tineyes and a Coppercloud.

And Breeze.

On a transient crew like this, it was an odd choice. Temmon had a few Mistings he preferred to work with, Breeze among them, but he planned jobs well in advance and only invited those he needed.

A Soother would be less than useless on the smash-and-grab they had planned for the barges.

“There are almost a hundred Hazekillers in that keep,” Breeze said. A cautious Soothing accompanied his words. Enough to take the edge off Temmon’s rage, the bloodlust that made him want to kill the man who had killed Temmon’s brother. That sort of emotion couldn’t be dulled too far without arousing suspicion, but it could be superseded by logic and a healthy dose of self-preservation.

“A Mistborn might get in, maybe,” Breeze went on. Arrogance was the next to go, along with Temmon’s confidence in his Allomancy. “A single Coinshot wouldn’t make it past the gates. Even if you snuck in, killed the man, you’d die before you took two steps.”

Temmon frowned, his eyes betraying his fear. Breeze Soothed away a bit more anger. “And you think _you_ stand a better chance? You’ll die as easily as me, and you won’t take as many with you.”

“I only need to kill one man.” Breeze poured himself some wine to cover the tremble in his hands. He’d been careful to distance himself from their target, and showing so much hatred now would lead to uncomfortable questions. When he trusted his voice to be level, he went on. “I don’t plan on using Allomancy or letting anyone know it was I who killed the man.” _Anyone but him._ “I can get in and out and away before they even know he’s dead. Elegant, wouldn’t you say?”

“He’s got a point,” said Leann, the woman in charge of their Thugs. She was slight and blonde, with a small nose. To a casual glance, she looked like easy pickings, but Breeze was well aware of the trail of broken bones and shattered egos she left in her wake. He would have toasted her if he could be sure she wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

Instead, he merely nodded. “Besides,” Breeze said. “This nobleman is known for hiring Coinshots. If you go on the barge raid, it will only make the Obligators more suspicious. To turn around and kill him might work against us. Assuming you still want the house to fall.”

Temmon didn’t look happy, but a feather touch took away the last of his resistance. “Fine,” he snapped, storming for the door. “Get yourself killed for all I care. So long as I can spit on his grave it makes no difference to me.”

* * *

 

Breeze’s con began several weeks before they hit the barges. It went without a hitch, aside from a terrifying moment upon their first meeting, when Breeze was certain his father would recognize him, despite five years, four inches, and a lingering gauntness from his years of scrounging for scraps.

The man didn’t recognize his son, any more than he recognized the feather touch on his emotions, dulling his suspicion and his wariness. There had been a time when Breeze couldn’t so much as burn brass without his father knowing. Since then, hardly a day had passed without Breeze Soothing away questions that might uncover the unfortunate truth of his birth.

By the time Temmon raided the barges, Breeze had become a familiar face around the keep. He’d seen his mother only in passing, only ever with his father looming over her, Rioting her so strongly Breeze could read it in the pull of her lips, the strain around her eyes.

It was a struggle not to kill the man where he stood and let the ashmounts burn the rest of the plan.

Breeze waited.

He waited for his father to hear of the raid, waited for the clerks to tally the losses, waited as the keep scrambled to stay afloat.

Breeze waited until his father grew desperate, then sent word that he had a proposal. His father was suspicious—especially after a month of “Lord Rifal” hinting at an alliance—but he was not so proud as to let his house fall while there was a chance of salvation.

In hours, Breeze had his answer.

He went to kill his father with a brass knife and two packets of metal shavings.

More guards than usual patrolled the gates—hazekillers among them, and a Coinshot who confiscated his knife. A flimsy, ornamental thing that only a noble would carry. Not the sort of thing one would bring if he expected to kill.

Breeze handed it over without complaint. “It’s dangerous out there, you know,” he said casually, Soothing away the man’s diligence. _You’ve found my weapon. Your job is done._ “One can never be too careful.”

The man waved him through, letting him know he could pick up his knife when he left. Perhaps Breeze would do that. If all went well.

Breeze’s father was waiting for him in a private room, no guards. Just as Breeze had hoped. They talked inane business dealings and politics, veiled offers of aid and bribes, never promising anything. Merely the suggestion that something might be possible with the right incentive.

The Rioting started the moment Breeze walked through the door. His father had never been one for subtlety. A strong enough Rioter, he always said, could make men do things against their will. Make a man angry, or greedy, or lustful, and it would override his common sense. Get him to that point, then make him sign a contract—there would be an Obligator close at hand, ready to witness before the Rioting wore off, though not so close as to see how the agreement had been reached.

Do that, and keep a retinue of bodyguards, and it didn’t matter how many enemies you had. If anyone happened to get close enough to kill, the man could always Riot his fear, his apathy, his guilt.

Breeze’s father believed himself untouchable.

So when he yanked on Breeze’s eagerness, his submissiveness, his helpfulness, it didn’t matter that Breeze stumbled, pulled almost off his feet. A smile said Breeze’s father knew that Breeze knew what was happening.

There was hardly any restraint for Breeze to Soothe away, but he did it nonetheless. His father’s touch grew heavier.

Breeze smiled—a vapid, guileless grin on the outside, and a darker smirk within. Emotional Allomancy had one key weakness: you couldn’t control something you didn’t recognize. Soothe away a man’s rage and he might still kill you out of greed. For all that his father Rioted altruistic emotions, none of it could drown out the loathing singing in his blood.

But Breeze didn’t fight the Rioting—not yet. He would kill the monster before him, but not in haste. Not in a way that would point back to him. As much as his father was jerking his emotions around, it was only a matter of time before…

Breeze felt the moment his father’s Allomancy slackened. The man was running out of zinc; it didn’t last long flared like that. He poured himself a cup of tea and added a packet of metal. He never had bothered hiding that. Breeze had never known a time when all of Luthadel didn’t know his father was a Rioter.

Gently, Breeze Soothed away his father’s emotions, until all that remained was paranoia and distrust. He’d never trusted his guards not to talk. It was why he met allies and partners alone.

He tapped his cup, glancing toward the door. Breeze let fear and curiosity return, and his father went to check the corridor outside. While his back was turned, Breeze slipped one of his packets out of his pocket and emptied it into his father’s tea.

He eased up on his Soothing a moment later, and his father returned to his chair, downed the rest of his tea, and flared Zinc.

Breeze felt a brief, erratic, response in his gut, and then his father’s Allomantic grip vanished. His eyes widened, the veins in his neck bulging.

“What--?”

Breeze smiled to himself, poured himself some tea, and took a sip. “Bad metals,” he said, shaking his head. “Nasty business. You might want to have a talk with your supplier. Oh.” He raised an eyebrow as his father shook with a sudden tremor, gripping the arms of his chair. “I don’t suppose you’ll have that chance.”

Rage burned in his father’s eyes. Rage, paranoia unmasked for the first time Breeze could recall, and confusion. “Why?”

“Why would I kill you, Father?” Satisfaction tightened around Breeze’s heart as recognition dawned in his father’s eyes. Breeze’s smile turned cold. “I suppose my emotions just…got away from me. Are you afraid, Father?”

A careful application of Allomancy assured that he was. Breeze watched terror mount in his father’s eyes as the raw zinc ore took effect. It might not have killed the man if he hadn’t flared it.

But then, if his father wasn’t in the habit of flaring zinc even for a casual business meeting, Breeze might not have wanted him dead.

It didn’t take long. In moments, the man was dead. Breeze planted the second vial of zinc ore in a coat pocket, where it would be found, and tested, and used to start a hunt for the metallurgist who had killed a member of the High Nobility.

All that remained was to sound the alarm and act the part of a horrified witness—horrified, and offended, that he had been Rioted by a man he called an ally.

Breeze turned, gathering himself to shout.

And came face to face with his mother.

She looked older than he remembered, at once more fragile and more dangerous. Her hair was turning grey, but her face still bore its mask of paint to make her look young and to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

Her gaze skipped over Breeze and focused on her husband’s corpse. “What have you done?”

This was not part of the plan. Every thief’s bone in Breeze’s body told him to run, or at least to spin the tale he’d prepared. He was here to save his mother, and nothing more.

His silence told her enough. She paled, stumbling back, mouth working silently. In moments she would find her voice and call the guards. Breeze would be arrested, executed. Not at all what he had planned.

Breeze burned brass and…

And nothing.

Twenty years of his father’s Rioting had left its mark on her. Breeze would not add to that burden, not even to save his own life.

He released his brass, and his mother screamed.

Breeze ran for the servant’s door, but his mother lunged for him, a knife in her hand. Breeze retreated, holding his hands up. The window was behind him. They were on the second floor—not an easy fall, but a survivable one.

Better than staying so his mother could kill him.

As the doors burst open, hazekillers pouring in, Breeze threw himself out the window. His mother’s shouts chased him into the night.

He landed hard, rolling as he’d learned from his first thieving crew, and staggered away. Temmon was going to kill him for this.

It didn’t matter. His father was dead. His mother, free.

It was better she not know who had done this. Breeze was not her son, not Lord Ladrian. Not anymore. He was a thief, a skaa. A murderer.

A good man? Perhaps not.

He could live with that, so long as his mother was free.


End file.
